An Open Letter To My Hale Center Family

Well.  The time has come.  I'll be honest, I don't know what to say exactly, or how to proceed.  I've been trying to write this letter for a couple of weeks and I feel like I can't quite convey all of my thoughts and feelings accurately.  If at all.
Let's be honest, everything that I have as far as experience is concerned I owe to you.  Before I showed up at the hale, I was focused on working in studios; I had little to no interest in theater.  Kelly mentioned to me that there would be an opening and *poof*, I appeared.  But I didn't think it would be anything long term or that it would change my life in the way that it did.  I thought that I would be there, gain some experience, enjoy my time and that I would be moving on.

It's quite fair to say that the Hale has changed my life.  I discovered a love and passion for theater and live acting that hitherto the Hale, I had no idea existed. I was immediately charmed by Dave Smith and his portrayal of Bobby in Crazy For You.  I couldn't believe the talent that was on the stage.  From Taylor Eliason and his beautiful (BEAUTIFUL) voice to Debra Weed and her electric presence, I was suddenly smitten.  I loved the ups and downs, the problem solving, but most importantly, the people.

At first, it was the talent on the stage that was most impressive to me.  But as time wore on, I really came to realize how much work went into costuming, set design, light design and hair.  Even the officers (seriously.  You guys are so much kinder than I will ever be under some pretty tough circumstances.) are so impressive in their professionalism and know-how.  The talents of the production crew (Cody S, Jana, Maryann, Meagan, etc.) are so synced; so limitless, it really is amazing to me.

I don't know what I'm saying, really.  I'm just babbling. The last few weeks have been a roller coaster of tears, confusion, sadness and happiness.  I guess in the end, I just want you all to know that I love you.  That without you, I would be in a studio somewhere, realizing that tracking isn't what I want to do with my life.   That you're important to me and the memories we have are some of the best in my life. 

You're my family and I'll love you forever.

Best,
Andrew James Keele

Why I Stopped Going to Church

This is a first and only draft.  It might be shallow or disjointed or whatever.

Here's how I feel:

I just finished running five miles.  The last two times I've gone to the gym to run, sesame street has been on and I watch it.  It's nice.

I am writing this for a few reasons:
1) When I posted the "going back to church" post on facebook a little bit ago, I had a few people talk to me about church and ask why I had even left in the first place.  I thought I'd centralize the whole thing and make it a little easier.
2) I feel inspired to do so.  This is for anyone who has ever felt the same as I did.

Throughout my whole life, I have struggled with church.  I'm a little rough around the edges, you know?  I'm a little wily and the absolute "sin = eternal damnation" thing just... it just doesn't sit well with me.  It doesn't jive in my heart and I can't believe that a God who loves us would base so much of our eternity on a timed test where we can't remember the answers or how we even got to the test in the first place.  You know what I'm saying?  All I'm saying is that I have always, always, always struggled with the idea of eternal damnation.

But I overcame that; after some rough-and-tumble teenage/young adult years, I over came my doubts and obstacles and I got myself on a mission.  The mission was wonderful.  I worked hard for two years, I baptized a ton of people and I was happy.  I read my journal entries of that time period and I remember how happy I was in that time.  There really is something about serving the Lord on a 24 hour basis that can light a fire inside you. 

As I prepared to come home from my mission, i was stoked.  I was ready to come home, get a job, go to college and get married.  Isn't that what all missionaries want?  Those three things are on every missionaries mind.  "Who will she be?" and "I wonder where I will work and if I will make a lot of money?".  Getting ready to come home is an exciting time, but that's not what I came home to.  I came home to getting dumped on, over and over and over and over.  I'll spare you the details, but I can tell you this much: I've lost more faith in and tolerated more hurt from people I trust most than I am even capable of expressing.  Every time I would stand back up, something else would come and knock me down.  Over and over and over and over and over and over. Since 2007(That's 7 years for all those that aren't fantastic with math).

And in February, 2014, after a handful of failed relationships and lost money and blah blah blah, I quit.  I decided that God wasn't there.  He wasn't there for three reasons:  1) Because he wasn't answering my prayers (knock and it shall be given?  more like "knock and I'll make sure everything you love is taken away. but you can keep your bartending job."); 2) he wasn't there because I didn't feel anything; 3) he wasn't there because it didn't logically make sense for him to be.
And if he was there, he must hate me.  Or, I was going to get up to heaven and he would have tears in his eyes from laughing because my entire existence had been a practical joke.

Anyway, I stopped going to church and made it a point to play video games instead.  For a time, I was fine with it.  I thought things like "if God really does exist, he is going to have to make peace with me, because I'm not going back."  and other crazy prideful things like that.

It's weird, because summer is like, my time.  It's my favorite time and nothing can get between me and happiness and the sun. But as time wore on, I found myself in a deeper and deeper hole. A kind of despair that I did not attribute at all to church, whatsoever. 

All I know is this:  The way I was thinking and feeling when I gave up the church was very self centered. To say "I pray and I ask for things and you tell me no so I'm not even going to talk to you anymore" is a very ego-centric, bratty, and childish way to act. (oxford comma)
Even in the way that I have been treating people and friends.  I don't go out, I don't maintain friendships; if we are friends it's because you have made an effort to stay in my life.  Not the other way around and that's unacceptable.  (full disclosure: I just tried to spell 'unacceptable' as 'unexceptable'.  Eat your heart out, Julie Wilding). Getting down and feeling lonely is a very easy thing when you are only concerned with yourself and not thinking of anyone else.  In fact, it lends itself to loneliness.
What's more, how can I expect to feel ANYTHING, when I'm so busy wallowing in my own self pity?  How can prayers be answered through the spirit if I'm too busy being sad about something trivial or stupid in my life?  I don't know and I don't believe that they can.

I don't know how religion or God works, I don't need to understand how it works.  It doesn't matter how it all works. I can't tell you why my car starts when I turn the key, why should I expect to be able to explain religion or God? (thank you Andrew Robertson). 
I know that without God in my life, I become an egotistical, self-centered asshole who only cares about himself and his xbox 1.  And whether or not that's a cause or an effect, I don't know.  But I believe that they are linked.

 I also believe that God exists.  I believe Jesus Christ is our savior.  I believe that we are a lot better off and that forgiveness is a lot more easily acquired than we tell ourselves.  I believe that through living the teachings of the gospel, our lives here can be better.  Like, A LOT better.
I believe that regardless of our circumstances here on earth, if we open up and become a servant for others and try to do good, we can and will find happiness. 

Starting today, I'm going to be better guys.  I feel alive and ready for more. I love you all. Thanks for reading.
xoxo

No Bad Days

So I keep a little black book with me.  I write and I write and I write.  Most of the time, inspiration is drawn from people that I see while I'm at lunch or something.  Sometimes it's about me and sometimes it's completely fictitious, made up from my head. Sometimes it gets mopey. They are all really short.  Most don't have any development plot wise, they are just snapshots in my brain.  They are like songs that don't rhyme. Anyway, I've decided to start publishing some of the stuff I write.  I'll take any criticisms or thoughts, just be gentle; these are first and only drafts.  Without further ado:
 
He was a consummate optimist.  Of course he was religious; he was filled with so much hope, how could he not be?  He wanted there to be an after life; he prayed there was an after life and he would be damned before he ever allowed himself to not be saved. 
He had a catchphrase throughout his whole life; a motto, if you will.  He saw it on the back of a Rav 4 and liked it so much, he didn't let it go.
"No Bad Days" it read, with an hibiscus beneath.
He carried the slogan with him through the majority of his life.  Even when his mother passed away, as he laid her favorite flowers on her closed casket, you could hear him mumbling it. Sometimes he believed it, sometimes he used it to reassure himself, other times he was only trying to convince himself.  He wrote it at the beginning of his journal, in high school would photoshop memes on his computer and later in life, tattooed it onto the back of his left shoulder.
But today, on the day that his work had let him go home early, he walked into his familiar home, which was found suddenly unfamiliar.
First, there were men's dress shoes at the entry way, followed by a long sleeve, button up shirt on the arm of the sofa.  Then, on the second step of the stair case, contrasting with mundane brown carpet, a bright pink bra on the floor, seductively enticing.  He didn't move from the entryway, how could he?  He suddenly questioned whether or not he was in the right house.  He checked and saw that the flat screen was the same; could be coincidence.  He checked for the photo of her and him and found it right where it should be.  This was his house.
There was a sudden thud from the floor immediately above him: his room.  Her room.  Their room.  Followed by laughter, it was hers, light and soft and familiar followed by a groan. The groan was a man's, amber and young.  The groan turned to soft laughter followed by another thud and now they were both laughing.
He was in the living room now.  His shoes were off from the force of habit.  She cared so much about the carpets, they had established the rule to not wear shoes in the house. He had struggled early on with the rule; she would come home and yell as he cooked dinner with his shoes on.
"Jerry!" she would cry from the entryway.  "You're going to ruin the carpets!"
Jerry would smile, remove his shoes and apologize. 
Another thud, more laughter.
"Is it against the law to kill someone if they are in your bed with your wife?" he wondered.
Jerry surprised himself as he began to whistle.  He was even more surprised to find a sudden peace come over him.  He walked into the kitchen and took a seat by the window.  It was sunny and there was a bird perched on the power line on the other side of the street.
"I wonder what birds did before there were power lines and billboards?" he said aloud.
A blue car passed by.
The laughter had stopped and was not replaced with a soft, rhythmic thud.
Jerry rose from his seat and walked back into the living room, down the hallway and into the garage. He grabbed his two five gallon gas cans and went back into the house.
Up the stairs, he found a pair of Banana Republic slacks, a quarter and two dimes.  The door was partly open, rays of sunlight pouring through.  His wife moaned and he moved closer.
He kept a good distance from the door, but poured one fourth of the first five gallons of gasoline onto the carpet.  He doused the stairs, the slacks, the bra, the shirt and the shoes.  But mainly the carpet.

She hated that he smoked.  She constantly complained that he tasted bad and wouldn't allow him to do it in the house or in the car or near the house or at work.  She wouldn't allow him to do it at all, really. 
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his last cigarette.  He lit it and took a long drag.  He took one last glance around what was surely his home, laughed softly and dropped the cigarette on an especially damp part of his carpet.
On his way out the front door, he smiled and said "No Bad Days."

We Are All Villains

So I keep a little black book with me.  I write and I write and I write.  Most of the time, inspiration is drawn from people that I see while I'm at lunch or something.  Sometimes it's about me and sometimes it's completely fictitious, made up from my head. Sometimes it gets mopey. They are all really short.  Most don't have any development plot wise, they are just snapshots in my brain.  They are like songs that don't rhyme. Anyway, I've decided to start publishing some of the stuff I write.  I'll take any criticisms or thoughts, just be gentle; these are first and only drafts.  Without further ado:

You don’t understand; nobody understands, really. 
Everyone wants to talk about motives:  “Why did he do it?” or “What was there to gain?”.  Even in the damn court of law, criminals can be acquitted if the prosecutor is unable to find a motive for the crime.  Criminals don’t need motives; you don’t need motives; I don’t need motives; villains don’t need motives.
Villains need an affinity for wrong-doing. Evil-- even in a limited, moderate fashion-- is an enticing thing to villains.  There isn’t a motive and there’s no need for such; person ‘a’ has something something, person ‘b’ wants it and then takes it.
I honestly don’t believe it can be much simpler than that.  Don’t muck it up with psychological analysis mumbo jumbo. Accept that villains have a desire for wrong and be done with it.
I suppose you’re thinking to yourself “Well, by that definition, we are all villains,” and you’re right, you twit. We are all villains.  That’s why I don’t understand the shock or the amazement when someone does something evil or wrong.  How many times have you taken advantage of somebody when they made a poor decision?  How often do you keep that extra money that someone left behind?
Don’t come to me with your wide-eyed, bushy tailed sob story about how Blaze destroyed your apartment building with a massive fireball. Wasn’t it you that spent your son’s lunch money at the casino last week?  Blaze was indulging his affinity for evil just like you, so I don’t want to hear it.  The bystanders are villains, the cops are villains, the city councilmen are all villains, the heroes are villains and the villains are villains.

And I am a villain.

I'm fine

So I keep a little black book with me.  I write and I write and I write.  Most of the time, inspiration is drawn from people that I see while I'm at lunch or something.  Sometimes it's about me and sometimes it's completely fictitious, made up from my head. Sometimes it gets mopey. They are all really short.  Most don't have any development plot wise, they are just snapshots in my brain.  They are like songs that don't rhyme. Anyway, I've decided to start publishing some of the stuff I write.  I'll take any criticisms or thoughts, just be gentle; these are first and only drafts.  Without further ado:

People can't hurt you when they're little tiny dots.  You can say or do anything; you can be anyone.  Your lights can shine bright-- as bright as you would like them; strobe them, if you please.  High above them or miles away, the faceless being's arrows can't touch you.  It's when they say 'hi' or crazy things like 'i'm sorry' or 'i miss you' that it starts to hurt. That gnawing, twisted feeling that bring to mind mistakes and alienation. No.
No. No.
 They must remain faceless and they must remain on the horizon.  Arms length is too close.
By now you're calling me a cynic: sad and alone. "Obviously dealing with feelings in the most unhealthy way possible," you'll say. And maybe it's true, you're probably right.  But you are all walking around together; together and miserable.  Meanwhile, I just sit up here, looking at all of you.
And look at you.
Funny little beings, perpetuating your existence until it's finally out of your control.  You're so far away and your problems look so small from here.  You're all dots and that's fine.
I'm fine.


I'm fine.

Love is watching someone die

Just listen to this song right here:

I'm going to get right to it:  My cousin died suddenly today.  I spent a meager 2 1/2 hours (my aunt spent 72 hours) at the hospital, supporting my family.  I won't go into details on exactly what happened, but I want to express my initial and prolonged reactions.
Kenslee was a wife and a mother of four.  She was smart, righteous and wonderful.  I will be the first to admit that Kenslee and I were not close.  The closest memory I have was of her babysitting my sister and I back when we lived in California.  But, those are fond memories and I cherish them; perhaps more now than I ever have.
When I found out she was in trouble, my first instinct was to apologize;  to apologize to her husband and to her kids. "I'm sorry I haven't come around.  I'm sorry I wasted time," and in a way, her death became a reason to recognize my own shortcomings "I'm sorry I'm not living as fully or as righteously as I should.", " I'm sorry I don't say 'I love you every chance I get'" and "I'm sorry I ever got mad or acted prideful.  I'm sorry for wasting time."  Any justification I had for coming up short at all in my potential was immediately dispelled in the wake of Kenslee's sudden death. 

Why would someone so good as Kenslee be taken away while someone as reckless as I am left?

From the apologies, my mind sort of transitioned into my shortcomings.  I started thinking about things like charity and forgiveness; love and faith; peace and life.  Suddenly, it's all relevant and it's not just buzzing around your head or in your peripherals; it's focused pressure in your stomach and chest that is pushing so hard that you're finding it hard to breathe.  I was suddenly aware of all of my short comings and that lead me right back into apologizing. 
I realized how fragile our lives are.  It's a flame on a candle stick that is so quickly and easily distinguished, why wouldn't we choose to live life more fully?  Why wouldn't I choose to forgive?  Why wouldn't I choose to love?  Why wouldn't I choose to play with my little nephews or give a ride to my little sister?  If tomorrow, I could be in the hospital, why wouldn't I choose to maximize my life through the small things? Is my day to day so important that those things can wait?  How long is too long for those things to wait? 

I made it to the hospital today.  As I approached, it dawned on me: Hospitals are big, beautiful buildings that are filled with our most horrific life events. Tall, sprawling structures filled with sadness and bitterness and apologies.  Once I entered the waiting room and saw my family, red eyed and despaired, I became incredibly aware of myself.  How do I stand?  Who do I look at?  What do I look at?  What can I even say?  What is there to say?  I hug my relatives who are all crying. I begin crying, too.
"I don't know what to say" comes out the most.  I don't say it to be cliche or funny; I say it because it's the truth.  Comfort seems so arbitrary.  What wise words can I say to comfort my ailing family?  "don't worry, I'm here"? "if you need anything, let me know"?  Almost every embrace was ended with an "i'm sorry". 
And I think that the point I'm trying to get to is this: I want to live my life in such a way that I don't feel the desire to apologize when someone like Kenslee passes on.  I think we all should.  Kenslee was a bright light that shined; an example for us to follow.  I want to love sweeter and care deeper.  I want everyone to know that I care and how much I care.

I love you all so much.

Dr. Pepper

Muzak (thanks to Jon Campbell for the gem): 

It's been a while since I've posted.  I feel a lot of different things tonight.  I feel accomplished and lazy; happy and incomplete; anxious and calm.  I'm serious.  All 6 of those emotions all at once.  Like a raging sea of paradox.
Tonight, for dinner, I had a can of Dr. Pepper, a plate of buttered corn and a bowl of campbell's soup (you know, the chunky kind? The expensive kind?). 
On monday, on a complete and utter whim, I bought a motorcycle.  A honda Shadow Phantom.  The thing is sick, man.  I love love love it so much.  It's fast and sexy (just how I like my women, eh?  eh...?); it's a great bike and potentially a huge mistake.  Here is a picture of me on the day I bought it:

It's a lot more fast and powerful than my old bike (don't worry, I still drive safe).  I will say that the seat is not as comfortable as my old bike but in every other facet of performance, the Phantom is better.
Today, I sold my very first motorcycle.  The one that I fell in love with and learned to ride on.  As the guy handed me money and I handed him the keys, I felt my heart beating heavy.  I began to feel a lack of breath even though I hadn't done any real work at all.  I haven't ever had an anxiety attack, I don't have anxiety, but I think tonight as I watched my bike drive away, I suffered a mild anxiety attack.  I paced around uncontrollably; I kept coming back to the window to see if the bike was still there or not.  I felt so antsy and crazy.  CRAZY I SAY.
I cut my pinky fingernail too short today and now, anytime I hit 'q', 'a', 'z' or 'shift', it sends a sharp spike of pain up my nerve endings.  Needless to say, that last sentence was a pretty painful one.

So I bought a new bike and got rid of my old one.  I sold the old bike because I wanted to get out of debt.  I didn't want anymore credit card payments and the motorcycle plus my savings account would be enough to pay off my credit cards.  To celebrate my suddenly debt-free life, I bought a new motorcycle.  ha ha ha.  But the motorcycle was bought on an auto loan, not on a credit card.  There is a difference.
Here it is, my last picture of my motorcycle:

 Urinetown is showing at the Hale right now.  Man, I love that show.  It is so funny and witty; the cast is great and directing is perfect.  It's a genius production(I do a little bit of singing in it, myself.).  Come see it!  Support your local theater! Support me for heavens sake! Support my job!
I felt like I had a lot more to say, but that's kind of the end of all of it. 

hm.

I'm sad to see my motorcycle go.  I'm happy I got a new one, but things aren't ever quite like the first time, are they? 

I don't know, I feel weird. 
I'm out!  Goodnight everybody!

underground boxing

let's start with the best thing that Australia has ever produced:

My mind is kind of jumbled, so this blog might be all over the place.  What's that you say?  My blog is always all over the place?  Well, dually noted my little meerkat, what I mean to say is that this blog will be more all over the place than usual.
I bought a new bed spread and I love love love it.  here's a picture:

Creamsicle, anyone?  How about halloween?
I work at the Hale.  You know that.  I love my job there.  I don't want to do anything else for the rest of my life.  It's just a really fantastic place to work. 
Right now, we are showing civil war.  I wasn't excited about Civil War.  I thought it was going to be boring and what?  There's no plot? So it will be 2 1/2 hours of pointless music?  When does urine Town* open, again?  I mean, that was honestly my train of thought.  I was quick to judge.
But I was really wrong. 
There are so many aspects to the civil war that we don't even think about.  Well, that I didn't ever think about. 
For example: Who was the first person to see an African American and think "Oh yeah.  This will be good.  I won't work anymore.  I'll just grab this guy and he can do it for me."  you know what I'm saying?  Maybe it happened that we invaded their land and took them as a prisoner and they became our slave or something like that? 
Anyway, there were people in the south who got thousands and thousands of dollars of free labor a day from people who were born, lived and died doing nothing but hard labor, day in and day out.  Isn't that a weird thought?  And there were people that were convinced that it was their God-given right to have these men and women do their bidding for free and without their consent.  What's more, you could kill them!  "I don't like what you said 'blam' you're dead" and that was okay.  I mean, that is the African American heritage.  You know, like the Irish and their underground boxing? or Canadians and nothing?  Captivity is their heritage. 
And people believed this.  People believed in their way of life so much, that they took up their guns and they fought for it.  They sacrificed their lives to preserve their way of life.  It's a selfless thing to do actually.  "I will die.  Not for me, but for my family and my children and my children's children."

In that sense, I'm envious of them.  Lately, I've been asking myself if there is anything the I believe in enough that I would grab my gun and protect it.  And I like to believe that on certain principles, I would stand.  I would draw the line and say 'this is unacceptable.'  I want to be so passionate about something that I would take a gun and defend it. (do i sound crazy?)

I guess that's why people died, though.  So I could sit in my soft, snuggly (ugh) bed and not worry about that.  People died on my behalf.  People died on the African American people's half.  They were real people.  They were kids and they were men.  Six hundred thousand died.  Six hundred thousand people.  So that African Americans could enjoy the same freedoms as white people.  That's honor man.  That's honor and that's passion.  What would you die for? 
 One more thing: What about Abraham Lincoln?  Talk about the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.  He's try to preserve the union, appease the blacks and appease the whites.  He walked a tight rope without a net and eventually gave his life.  I wonder if God had said "this poor guy has had enough" and it was his way of rewarding him.  Who knows.
I have so much more to say about all of this, but I have a meeting with Cody Swenson in the morning (don't fire me! Please??) and I'm tired (I ran 2 miles tonight!  And then I knocked out 50 pushups.).  I will talk to you later. Goodnight blogosphere.
Should I drop out of school?

I love you for reading.  Seriously.
Always do what you are afraid to do.




*Urine Town is the show that come once Civil War closes.  "The title is awul" you think.  But what do you know?  it's a really funny commentary on politics and our life today.

A Very Short Story

It was 2:30 AM and I was suddenly awake.  Where the hell was I?  How long had I been asleep?  Where I lay was comfortable enough  but I still felt the confusion of complete disorientation.  Louise had been there.  I knew that for sure.
Or had she?
My fist was clinched and my jaw set.  My muscles at the ready.  What was going on?  I had to consciously tell myself to relax.
Focus.
Music.  Loud blaring music.
I could move; I wasn't pinned down at all and it was dark.  Had Louise done this to me?
I ventured a muffled sentence, "Louise, are you there?"
The music was still blaring.
Focus.
I was laying on my stomach, on a bed and my muscles were taut, again.  "Louise, if you're there, answer me you bitch."
Just music.
I rolled to my side and my naked skin touched something small and glass.  It fell to the floor and clinked against more glass.
Emotions began to precipitate; anger, confusion, misery.  I sat up slowly, pivoting in place and bringing my legs around to hang off of the side of the bed.  Placing my feet on the floor, my skin touched cold glass, for a second time.
I pulled my foot in away in sudden shock but soon overcame and allowed my foot to firmly rest on the floor.  Beneath my hardened sole, I felt the smooth curves of the glass.  There were bottles-- all of them empty-- littered and strewn about all around the bed.
A wave of feelings: desire, disappointment, angst; somehow connected to the empty bottles on the floor.
Mechanically, my hand reached out to the stand, next to the bed.  I found a phone and easily lit up the screen.  Force of habit.  Checking for forms of communication, blinded by the light, I turned the phone away disappointed.
"Damn you, Louise."
Everything was so hazy.  I knew Louise had been there.  Just hours before.
Just hours before.
Just hours before.
Just hours before, she had been sitting next to me, her feet planted where the empty bottle now lie.  Or was I just dreaming?
"You just bring me down," she had said. "I wonder if I could do better," she had said.
Nausea.
Attempting to stand, my face met the floor and all was black.  Again.
The music continued to blare.

geronimo.

This video is so 90's, I almost can't stand it. (split the infinitive right there; I do what I want.)

I’m not sky diving nervous, nor am I high dive or monsters-under-my-bed or put-on-this-armor-and-mount-this-horse-for-tomorrow-we-slay-the-dragon nervous.  I think I’m just roller coaster nervous. You know what I mean?  As your cart clicks toward the top, a certain sense of apprehension kind of fills your chest.  Like some sort of beast that is trying for force it’s way out. But not through your mouth or urinary tract; no no, it’s trying to come right between your lugs, through your rib cage and out.  It’s a pressure that makes your hands shake a little bit.  You take confidence in the fact that you won’t die on a roller coaster.  But the almost-terror is there. 
That’s how I feel.

You know the term “fake it until you make it”?  That’s been me for the last couple of years.  I feel like I have been chucked into this whirlwind of opportunity and I’m only quasi-prepared.  I confidently accept the offers that come my way and try my best to excel, but with every new opportunity I think, “Holy crap, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to actually do that.” 
Tomorrow, I’m running the live sound for the Syd Riggs show.  I’m really really excited.  It’s going to be such a great experience.  But I haven’t ever done this before and I seriously don’t know that I’m going to be able to pull it off.  ha ha ha.  It’s that apprehension that I was describing before: that nervousness that makes your hands quiver a little bit.  It’s pushing on my chest and makes my heart rate increase.  But it’s not something that is going to kill me.  I’ll wake up sunday morning breathing just as well as Saturday morning.

I mean, look at this beast:

Are you intimidated? So am I and I know what every knob does.

I'm being melodramatic.  You and I both know it.

I'm not actually intimidated by the board.  Everything is going to be great.  There might be a few hiccups, here and there, but it’s going to be great and I sincerely believe that.  I just want it to be everything that it can be. 
I'm going to sleep now, and tomorrow I run a pair of shows for the masses.  Cross your fingers and say your prayers.
Here I go.
Geronimo.

What I'm trying to say

That song rocks you guys.  And it resounds with me.
Can I just talk about my life really quick?  let's talk about it.
For the new year, I was going to get a gym membership (ever since I quite applebee's, I've been getting fatter) but instead, I bought myself a weighted jump rope and called it good.  ha ha.  So each night, before I go to bed, I jump 100 times with both feet followed by 25 jumps for each foot alone.  So like, 150 jumps in total.  It kills me.  I let my heart rate slow down, I do 25 pushups and then I do another 150.
So, tonight, now that I'm done doing my mini work out, I'm sitting on my bed, breathing heaving and listening to the song that I posted above.
About 3 years ago, Tiffany Robertson dumped me.  I took it very poorly.  During one of our final arguments, she talked to me about how I wasn't getting any experience and that I needed to get out there.  She told me that my degree wouldn't be enough and that experience was everything.  What she said rang very true.
So after we broke up, I started my own company, Tan Top Records(click on the link and like the page.  C'mon.  Support me!).  The company didn't really make me any money.  I wasn't very good at it at first and the space I was in wasn't conducive to a real studio sound.  But I learned a lot.  Having my own business gave me the opportunity to expand and learn how to mix music properly.
After Tiffany, I dated Kelly.  Kelly watched me as I tried to get my business off the ground.  She watched me as I tried to bring people into my parents basement and record their crappy (and sometimes really crappy) music.  Finally, after months of trying to get my bird off the ground, an opportunity arose.  A job at the beloved Hale Center Theater in Orem.  The only reason I got it was because Kelly worked there and mentioned that I had had experience.
They hired me and I began my career as an audio technician for Hale Center Theater.  And you know what? I'm 100% content.  I don't want to do anything else for the rest of my life.  That's how much I love my job.  Because of it, I'm learning light design (which I also love) and I'm mixing for a live show coming up in February called Why We Tell The Story If you care about me at all, you'll go and check it out, because I'm STOKED about it. STOKED STOKED STOKED.
It also put me in touch with a friend named Meagan who hired me on to work on an independent film called GruntSlingers.  Again, if you care about me at all, you'll click on that link and like the page.  It'll give you cool updates so you can see my work! hooray!
The point of this blog is not to plug my goings-on.  It's to show that ever since Tiffany dumped me, my life has kind of been guided.  As I prepare and learn, I'm given more and more opportunity.  My life is fantastic and I'm not even trying to make it that way.  It just is.
I don't know what I'm trying to say.  I'm just very grateful for everything; for my talents and opportunities. 
I'm grateful to God for giving them to me.
I really do love all of you.
I love you for reading, for supporting me and for putting up with my random, emo status updates on facebook.
Keep it real, b.

getting real with the blog

I don't want to be your other half, I believe that one and one make two.

Listen, I've got to talk to you about something serious.  I'm sure you've seen this coming for a while now, it's not quite the same as before, was it?  Things have changed and it almost seems like they can't be fixed.  
You've got to understand.  In the spring of our relationship, we were inseparable, weren't we?  We were together, almost everyday.  I remember feeling anxious to come home so that I could tell you about my day.  I remember taking notes about men that I saw, sitting and eating, with the hopes that I could share it with you.  I felt like you understood me and I could say anything I wanted.  You understood me and you never judged.

But then, summer ended and school began.  I became too busy for you; I was doing homework and working on important projects; things that would further my life.  And my future became more important than you.  I reprioritized and found that you were in the middle of the stack; somewhere beneath work, school and recording but somewhere above video games and Dragon Ball Z.  It just got so crazy and you got lost.  
If you want the truth, I got bored. We were just a fling.  That's all we were.  I know it seemed like more and I know it could have been more.  I just wasn't as committed as I thought I was. It happened so fast and I promised more than I could possibly deliver.  You were too perfect and I need a little bit more drama in my life.  It's not you, it's me. 
I'm sorry that I called you a fling.  It seems harsh, but that's what you were.  I can't be tied to you like I was all last summer.  I can only write so often; I'm just too busy.  I love everything about you: the strength you give me, the courage and the clarity.  But you can't wait for me.  I'm moving forward.  I'm moving up and I'm moving on.
If you must know, I do have other journals.  I am more intimate with them, but that doesn't mean I care for them any more or less than you.  The relationship is different.  What you and I have is so different from what I have with them.
Of course, we can still be friends, my dear blog.  I'll write as often as I can, believe me when i tell you that.  You're one of the best things I've ever discovered.  It just won't work as more than a casual writing experience.

see you around,
Andrew J Keele

Merry Christmas!

This one is for Kelly:

Okay, listen, you guys.  It's been about two or three weeks since my last day at applebee's.  I knew that it was slowly killing me and that over the last six years I have only compromised my standards and morals to make money.  I knew that.  But I didn't know to what degree it was killing me.  I didn't realize how miserable it was making me.  So to all of my friends and coworkers at Applebee's I want to issue this blanket apology:  I'm sorry for being a douche. 
I compare it to being in the ocean.  The ocean is freezing at first, but as you get out, your body adjusts and kind of starts to lose feeling.  Temporarily, that sort of thing is fine but over the long term, I don't think it's very healthy.  And that's kind of what happened with Applebee's.  I came back from my mission and swore I would only work at Applebee's for a minute.  I'd get some cash flow going on and then quit.  But that didn't happen.  I lingered and got comfortable.  As I compromised myself for comfort and convenience, I slowly grew embittered; day by day, month by month.
Now that I am free of Applebee's, I feel like I can breathe again.  I wish everyone I meet a merry christmas and I feel compelled to be kind to people, without motivation or expectation of anything in return.
I haven't spent money in four days and that's the price I pay for quitting a job that pays pretty well.  But I don't care.  I don't mind living on a budget and scrimping by if it means that I can be content in life.  Everything is going to be fine.  I know it.
So, in conclusion, I wish all of you fellow Applebee's friends and coworkers a merry christmas! Thanks for all of the good times.

Christmas is coming soon.  For the first time in a very long time, I don't have to work on Christmas Eve (Last year, my final table stayed about an hour after we closed on Christmas Eve.  I was at Applebee's until about 11:00 PM.  Can you believe that?  Where' the humanity?? Anyway, they didn't even tip me, so as they walked out the door, I shouted "merry Christmas, bitches."  The dad turned and looked at me as he was walking out the door.  I was pretty bugged).  I'm so excited!  I'm excited to spend free time with family, to build fires and just hang out.  I think I really love Christmas.
Another thing, I'm currently running Christmas Carol on Tues., Thurs., and Sat. nights.  I really think all of you should come and see this play.  It's beautiful.  Chris(the guy that plays scrooge) is brilliant.  There have only been like, three shows that haven't made me cry.  It's beautiful and if you want to come see it, text or message me.  I'll see if I can get you in.

I love you for reading.
Do what you love.
Merry Christmas.
As ever,
AJK

I'm not scared.

For all those with ears to hear, let them hear:

You guys.  I did it.  I quit applebee's.  It was magical, I say.  MAGICAL.  Last friday night, I was at my bar, thinking about this oncoming month of December and how busy it's going to be, and I thought "Enough."  It's honestly like something snapped within me.  All of the pressure, all of the compromise, all of the irritating people; enough. 
You see, I bar tend.  I tend bar.  However, I don't drink.  When people sit down at my bar and ask me what's good, I lie to them about what I think is good and suggest popular drinks.  If they want to know the difference between two drinks, I act like I know.  It's a lot of compromise, you see?  I'm not an advocate of alcohol; I'm not!  I don't think it's a good thing.  Taking religion completely out of the equation, I think it ruins lives and families and puts people's lives at risk.  Do you know how many people out there drink and drive?  I'll clue you in: All of them. Ok, maybe not all of them, but I would say about 90% of the people that come and sit at my bar leave without a designated driver. 
Putting religion back into the equation, my religion explicitly states that alcohol is bad! That it's not to be consumed.  How can I look someone dead in the eye and tell them how good a Perfect Margarita is?  There's so much conflict.
It's been a long 6 years of compromise and I'm done.
I don't have a backup plan.  I don't have a way to replace that money, but I've made a good choice- one that will further my life and soul- and I'm confident that God will support me.
I'm not scared. 
I am excited for Christmas; I am excited to cut down a tree and decorate it; I am excited for crooners on the radio singing gentle songs about love peace.  I want someone to decorate my tree with and sit next to my fireplace while watching Charlie Brown's Christmas or It's a Wonderful Life. 
What is happening to me?
I love you for reading and I'm sorry I haven't been as faithful. 
Stupid school.
I love you.
Happy Thanksgiving

I told him a really funny joke

Well.  Something weird has happened to me, you guys.  It happened to me on Saturday night and I wonder (if I may be so melodramatic) if I will ever be the same.
Every now and then, I go over to my sister, Renee's house to do my laundry.  She is kind enough to leave that service available to me and it's nice to go and see my little nephew Jagger.  He and I are like, best friends.  We sword fight, wrestle, I throw him higher into the air than most people are comfortable with; he loves me and I love him.  Here's a picture of he and I, right after I told him a really funny joke:

He's shirtless because he was busy being really awesome.
Anyway, Jagger hasn't ever inspired the thought or feeling of "Man, I want my own kids."  In fact, that thought hasn't ever come without being beckoned by some ornery and incredulous female companion.  Here's what I'm trying to say:  I haven't ever really, truly wanted kids.  I haven't ever had an interest in extending my lineage or living through them or blah blah blah whatever other stupid crap that people say about the matter.  But on Saturday, as I wrestled with him, I felt something.  I mean, I felt something.  Like some sort of bitter medicine, the thought "Maybe I would like this kind of bond, this kind of companionship in my life" came.  And, not only did it come, but it is lingering!  Lingering I say! It won't leave me.
The feeling has left me feeling terribly lonely, as well.  I've always been fine being alone.  I don't mind it and I actually kind of guard it rather jealously.  But this feeling takes me being alone and changes it to me being lonely.  My priorities are suddenly jumbled.  I have always had a plan and something going on; I've always known, kind of, exactly what I was doing and where I was going.  But now, I feel so... wayward.  ha ha ha.
My name is Andrew Keele and for the first time in my entire life, I'll admit it:  I want to have kids.
You don't understand, I bet.  I'm really more selfish than you think I am. Here are some things I want: to travel the world; to drive a nice, fast car; nice carpet and a studio downstairs, in my basement. Here are some things I don't want: to wake up at 6 am to make sure that my kids get to school; to wake up in the middle of the night to some screaming baby; to have to cancel a movie night or a night at a play because one of my kids is sick.
I could go on and on.  But here's the point:  for the first time, I find that the bond and love of and from children could outweigh all of those stupid, material things that I hold in such high regard.
What is happening to me?
this has been an insightful post.
I love you for reading.
Keep the faith.

maybe later on

Hey everybody.  It's been a minute, huh?  Lookit, here's the truth:  I don't have even five seconds to myself these days.  The last month has been just crazy and I'm running around like an idiot trying to do everything.  At this very instant, I'm typing to you, my faithful readers, while I should be making a time line that shows what was going on in George Wythe's life during the time of the founding of our great nation.  So... I'm sorry, okay?  I had a ton of free time during the summer, but with the dropping of the leaves and the mercury, my free time has diminished.  Just back up off of this.
I've had kind of a lot on my plate the last few months, you guys.  I've been spending my every weekend working on a web series called Grunt Slingers.  I have been going to school (to be honest, I go about fifty percent of the time.  I just hate it so much) and doing homework.  I'm working at the hale most nights, but when I'm not there, I'm working at my accursed job, Applebee's. 
School is almost over for me.  I can't wait to be free, but at the same time, it sort of scares the bejeezus out of me.  All of my carefully laid plans must come to fruition.  Or I must attempt to make them come to fruition.  ha ha ha.  We'll see what happens, I guess. 
Spain is out, you guys.  I'm not going.  I'm not going to explain myself on here, but it's out for the time being.  Maybe later on.  Plus, if I go and spend time in Europe, I kind of want to go everywhere.  I want to go to spain, italy, france (especially normandy) england, scotland, germany, blah blah blah.
Sometimes, I think about Germany.  I think about the Germans and how the populace at one point was like "yeah.  Yeah, all of Europe should speak German.  That's good.  Also, I like that idea about how everyone should have fair skin.  That's good, too."  I mean, what the crap??  I also think about bicycles and the history of them.  Who invented the bicycle?  Oh.  Wikipedia said that it was some German.  Go figure.
But you know what I mean?  I wonder if bikes were like X-boxes.  Maybe the unreal graphics can be compared to the fact that someone could move at high speeds while maintaining their balance.  "You what?! 15 miles per hour and you were riding around on just two wheels??  How did you sustain balance?"  I bet you, when the bicycle came out all those years ago, it was the bee's knees, man.
Okay.  That's it.  I'm all done talking to you fools.  It's friggin late, anyway. 

I love you for reading.
I'm trying to be like Jesus.
xoxo

myself thinking

that one is for all of you Fun "fans".

Here's the truth: when I type in the dark, I get vertigo.   I begin to feel my body flip upside down and my head gets dizzy.  I have to type with a light on, otherwise I really start freaking out.
My week is rather cyclic.  It begins on Friday.  I spend the entire day at Applebee's.  And usually, it's fine.  By the end of the day, I'm pretty tattered and worn, and I find myself usually (only a little bit) wondering why I continue to work at a place that robs my soul.  Saturday and sunday go by, they are both nice because they are days off.  Monday comes and I swear, it's like death.  I can't explain it; I don't understand it; I work one shift at Applebee's and by the time Monday is over, I just want to rip my shirt off, light my bar on fire, kick a few hosts in the mouth and walk out the car side door, never to be heard of or seen again. (funny little anecdote: there was this guy that used to work at applebee's, I can't remember his name.  But, he just stopped showing up for his shifts one day.  A month later, his wife showed up, wanting to sit in his section and we told her he hadn't been in for a month and that he was fired for not showing up; we never heard from either of them again.  Alright, maybe it's not so funny.)  The work I do is so... compromising.  Everything about it is a compromise.  It's a compromise of my morals.  Dealing with people I don't want to deal with is a compromise.  Admitting that I'm wrong when I'm not is a compromise.  Just... my entire career (honestly! even the fact that I work there.  It's a funny  sad story.  You should ask me about it sometime.) is a conflict of interest.  It's me doing something that I haven't ever wanted to do.
Anyway, by the end of Monday night, I'm ready to quit; to throw in the proverbial towel.  But tuesday morning comes, and I find myself thinking about guys who work in Ecuador, picking bananas for 13-14 hours every day to make $200 per week.  Wednesday comes and I think about construction guys that work 12 hour days doing hard labor in the hot sun or in the freezing cold.  Thursday I find myself thinking about how some people have to work every day.  And by friday, I have realized how cushy I've got it and what a whiny bitch I am.  Ha ha ha. 
So I go to work and start the whole thing over.  End over end, I'm circling.

I love you for reading my meanderings of thought.
Always do what you're afraid to do.
I'm skipping school tomorrow.  Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in.

Love is watching someone die.

this song is really beautiful.

I took tonight off to go to a barbecue with some very dear friends.  But I ended up sitting with my grandma as she spends her last few hours on earth.  Death is so surreal.  Does anyone really have any idea what comes after this life?  What's the deal with goodbye for forever?  I held her hand and watched as she laid there, unconscious, fighting to breathe. 

Fighting to breathe.

When I was younger, I used to hang with this guy named Frank.  He was my first friend in elementary school after moving to Santa Maria.  He had a bowl cut. He used to take major league batting gloves (he had a bunch of them.  Specifically, Angels and Dodgers gloves) and cut the fingers off of them.  Sometimes he would bring them to school and let me have one.  It was very nice.  My parents didn't like Frank a ton; he cursed and wore gloves with the fingers cut off.  He wasn't a good influence on me. 
I often wonder about Frank.  I don't even know his last name.  I hope he's doing okay, he was one of my very first friends.

Every now and then, while riding my bike, I think about jumping off, and hurling myself into a back flip, just to see if I could land it.  Wouldn't that be rad?  If I could actually do it, it would be sweet.  But then, I quickly remind myself that my motorcycle isn't paid off, that it would crash into oblivion and that I would probably end up dead. 
So I doubt I will ever attempt my cool back-flip-from-the-motorcycle idea.  Too bad.  It's a great one.  I wonder if it's even physically possible?

I'm still thinking about going to Barcelona, Spain.  I don't know, man.  It's fraught with danger, that's for sure.

Thanks for reading.
I love you.
Better get living while we're dying.

Normandy

 

Lookit, everybody.  I want to go to Europe.  I think I'm going to go in October.  You are all maybe rolling your eyes or thinking that I always say crazy crap like this.  And you're right.  But I think that in October, I am legitimately going to go to Spain.  Or maybe Italy.  I can't decide.  I know that I want to go to one of those two place, then take a train north to France.  I am going to visit versailles, possibly Normandy and St. Michel (not sure what that is? Don't worry, I put a picture below.)  After that, I think I'm going to take the chunnel north and then fly out of London.  I'll be gone all of 11 days or so.  So stoked about the idea.  

Now, about the funding... ha ha ha.  We'll see what happens.  A fool and his money, you know?

Isn't this rad?? It's over by Normandy.

It's been a minute since I posted on here.  School started.  Guys, I really hate school.  I honestly wonder if it hurts my soul like pornography or hard-core gangster rap does.  It's just so dumb and artificial.  I'm so close to being done... so close.

Somebody in my house is using my toothpaste.  It drives me CRAZY.  Not because I'm not willing to share my toothpaste.  I really don't mind sharing.  However, I do mind when they squeeze the tube from the middle.  Look, I know it's not that big of a deal, but I really, really can't stand it when the toothpaste tube is squeezed from the middle.  It says it on some of the tubes:

FOR BEST RESULTS, SQUEEZE TUBE FROM THE BOTTOM

I just can't stand it: as you reach the half-empty point of your toothpaste experience, your tube of toothpaste is this sort of mangled, pliable mess of plastic, fluoride and gel. So, dear toothpaste thief, if you're reading, I warn you to take caution.  I will exact my revenge!

I love you for reading.  Seriously.

Live lucky.

xoxo

promiscuous!

This is honestly what I'm listening to, right now:

The last 45 seconds sound like you're flying.  I swear.
Also, I toured around Ecuador with a guy named Ben Stocking who can play this song.  He's incredibly talented.
Today I made a realization.  It was like, a tender mercy from God.  It was momentous, but at the same time, silly and kind of simple.  You know what I am saying?  Well, anyway.  I guard my alone time rather jealously.  I don't like to spend a ton of time with people.  The older I get, the more hermit-like I become.  It's easier and quite honestly, I like to dictate what I eat, what I do and what I think (not talk about.  because talking about something alone would be crazy.).
Today, I had to take my motorcycle in to get a little repair done.  It was nothing big or fancy; just a fork seal.  Something I could have done on my own, had I the inclination and the tools.  I set up an appointment for 9:30 A.M. this morning.  Last night however, as I was thinking about the day, I realized that I needed someone to drive my car to the garage so I had a way back.  Getting my motorcycle to the garage wasn't something I could do by myself.
There's a parallel I draw right there.  Each day, I grow more and more comfortable being alone, but that's not the best way to be.  As easy as being alone is, I would be better off with someone along with me.  I would be better off with someone to drive my car while I drive the motorcycle; with someone to share sodas; with someone to blah blah blah, something sappy.  It's easier to be alone and regulate my whole day.  I decide what is spent and what I do, but that's not the best way.

I wax reflective.

I blame the classical music I'm listening to.

Here's something: I hate urinals without walls (originally, it was "here's something I hate: urinals without walls." but turns out, I like the first format better.).  It's really not that big of a deal, you stare straight in front of you and don't talk.  I just want to know how much those walls cost, though.  How much are you losing to make all of your guests a little uncomfortable while they do their business?  And you know what else?! why do some people even have the desire to talk while peeing??  I can't wrap my head around that one.  Yes, we are both standing at the same wall, peeing.  No, that doesn't mean we are friends, nor does that mean we are associates.  In fact, it doesn't mean anything.  So shut up and let me pee.

I love you for reading.
I really do mean that.
Always do what you're afraid to do.